Page 108 of Unalive On Air

Peter shakes his head. “Be honest with the poor woman.” He’s irritable now, and that’s all my fault. “She knows I’m here anyway. Otherwise, she wouldn’t . . .”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but something about his words, or the way he says them, ring uncomfortably inside my chest, almost controlling. I tuck that notion away for later dissection.

When Pixie moves the planchette to “yes,” Helga doesn’t react. She doesn’t smile, doesn’t frown. Doesn’t show any sign she’s acknowledged our answer.

“Gary,” Jazz says softly. “Do you know who killed Jean?”

I shake my head, and Pixie slides the planchette over to “no.”

Both Jazz and Helga sigh quietly.

“Spell out soon,” I tell Pixie, and the women read out the letters as they appear.

“S‑O‑O‑N. Soon.”

“Was your death an accident, Gary?” Jazz says.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Pixie moves over to “no” without my confirmation.

“Was it suicide?”

“No.”

“Kelsey Cobbledick and Jean Johnson were in a romantic relationship before she died. They were childhood best friends,” Jazz says. “Did he kill her?”

Everyone looks at Jeanie, who rushes over to the window and pretends she’s found something on the horizon that requires her full attention.

“Cat’s out of the bag now, eh?” Stove says, flippering his feet like an ’80s teenager gossiping on the phone.

“Move it to ‘no,’” I say to Pixie, and then I get her to spell out the word alibi. Thankfully, it’s short.

“He didn’t,” Jazz repeats. She huffs and glances up at the ceiling rose. “Is there anything you would like us to know? Do you have any questions for us?”

“Yes,” I say, jumping up and dashing over to the board to assist Pixie.

“What do you want to know?” Jazz says.

Damn, how are we going to communicate this? Pixie’s exhausted from pushing that tiny thing about and I’m not sure I’ll be much help. Magnus could probably talk with the women if I figured out how to summon him, though he told me he couldn’t mess about in other people’s lives because of his curse, and he’d also be disturbingly free-swinging.

“Stove! You can make your voice heard by fleshies?” I ask, but Stove’s already shaking his head.

“Not enough for a full conversation,” he says, and disappointment sinks deep within me. “I can do this, though. Watch . . .” He sits up, then cups his hands around his mouth, and shout whispers, “Jaaaazzzz.”

Jazz’s head whips towards Stove’s location.

“Cool, huh?” he says. “Jaaaazzz.”

“Gary, is that you?” she asks.

“Nooooooo,” Stove whispers back. He looks at us. “Can’t do anything more than that, really.”

It’s clear from the women’s lack of response that they didn’t hear his last words.

“Oh, I have an idea!” I get Pixie to spell out “mirror,” and we all run into the bathroom.

It becomes apparent after a few seconds that Helga and Jazz have assumed we meant the ornate gilt mirror in the bedroom area.

“Turn the shower on, Pixie,” I say.